The ranch is loud with Christmas boots on wood floors, Jagger’s laughter echoing down the hall, someone arguing about who burned the rolls.

You’re at the stove, stirring, when familiar arms slide around your waist.

Ky doesn’t rush it. He never does.

He rests his chin on your shoulder, warm breath brushing your cheek as he peers into the pot.

“Mmm,” he hums quietly. “Smells unreal.”

You feel him smile before you see it. His hand lifts, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear soft, practiced, like he’s done it a thousand times already today.

“There,” he murmurs. “That’s better.”

He kisses the spot just below your ear, barely there, like it’s a secret meant only for you.

“My girl,” he says, low and affectionate. “You need anything? I got it.”

Someone calls his name from the other room. He ignores it.

Instead, he tightens his hold just a little, swaying you gently.

“Take your time,” he adds, smiling against your shoulder. “Ain’t nothin’ more important than you right now.”

And standing there wrapped in him, surrounded by warmth and noise and Christmas it feels exactly like where you’re meant to be.